


Factory

by Thalius



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Light-Hearted, One Shot, Pre-Canon, his ghost is a dirty tattle-tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: Not everybody trusts that Guardians will care for them out of the goodness of their hearts, but Andal still persists in spite of that.





	Factory

He traced the sight of his rifle across the Steppes. Flickers of static in between the shells of massive trolleys made his eye twitch in the seat of his scope, and his forefinger ran the length of the trigger as his crosshairs landed on the crown of a Devils Vandal. Fish in a train-shaped barrel.

A bloody red telemetry line appeared in the optics just then, fed helpfully into the scope of his rifle by his Ghost. “Perimeter successfully updated,” Lady whispered beside him. “Go get some sleep.”

“They’re partying out there,” he replied, ignoring her advice. Their camp was too far away to hear their wretched shrieking, but the aqua light of their many eyes were well visible. His nose wrinkled just looking at them.

“And they are six hours away, at least.”

“Could have pikes stored in the train.”

“Unlikely.” She poked him, her shell pressing into his cheek. The frigid metal was a testament to how cold it was tonight. “Nap-time.”

He waved a hand over his shoulder to dispel her. She appeared above the other one instead. He shifted his weight, felt his left thigh protest, and twitched his rifle along the support railing further east. Lady immediately drew the telemetry line for him this time, so he stared down at Ward 8A for an extra two minutes just to annoy her. She didn’t sigh; she disappeared in an indignant cloud of Light instead, down into Factory’s main hall where she would undoubtedly be telling Corporator Aisha that he was working overtime again. 

“I’m just returning a favour,” he said into FT-COM. “For Munji lining my cloak with caribou. Aisha won’t have to pay me for an extra hour of scouting.”

_ “No. You will pass out on the railing and then the Fallen will come and you will nap through the raid and everyone will die and you will blame yourself forever,”  _ Lady responded. She was more reproachful than warning.

He sighed and sat the stock down on the catwalk beside him. “You are terrible at being dramatic.”

_ “Truth isn’t always a fairytale.” _

“That’s better.”

He heard Aisha in the background of the open comm then, and waved his hand though neither could see it. Lady was not bluffing. She rarely was. “Fine, fine, tattler. I’m coming down.”

He indulged in one last, quick sweep of the north line before slinging his rifle over his back and heading back down into the guts of Factory. There were no regular manned security checkpoints this many levels up, only old CCTV yokes to monitor the fire exits, so he forgoed the winding catwalk stairs and leapt over the safety railing, plunging straight down to 3F. The guards Aisha kept were well used to Guardians by now, but he didn’t want them to mistake his impatience for showboating. 

He landed on kitty-toes, as the Factory children called it, and pushed through the doors to the living hall, taking care to deadbolt it behind him.  _ Hall _ was a generous word; it still very much looked like an old office building, even with the bare bulbs and paper lanterns strung through the supports of water-stained drop-tile ceilings. Office cubicles served as sleeping quarters, and most were walled off with blankets or sheets of corrugated metal this late into the night. The whirr of electric heaters for those lucky enough to have them provided enough white noise to serve as a proxy for real privacy. 

Andal wound his way through the living hall, running his fingers along the bars fused to the windows. He was making a beeline for the old Café, and his legs protested every single step of the way. Four hours of scouting in negative thirty degree winter winds had locked his joints up, and he’d long stopped being able to feel his fingers and toes. He flexed them inside his gloves, and the leather creaked back at him.

Lady was waiting for him in the Café when he got there. The sign hanging above its threshold that outlined a flowing woman against an emerald backdrop had not been lit in centuries, though Aisha swore up and down it still worked. If he were the foolish sort, her stalwart conviction would have been enough to make him believe her, but he could see that the plastic shell had been taken down and placed back up in order to retrieve the precious Golden Age fluorescent bulbs behind it.

Beside his Ghost was a chipped steaming cup and a bowl of something hot, also waiting for him. The Corporator sat in the opposite seat, and he slid into his chair without a word. 

“We keep having these meetings,” Aisha said in greeting, watching him flex his fingers. He was hungry, but his hands were too cold to hold the spoon shoved into his meal. Lady drifted over, gave him a disapproving look, and expanded her shell. Warm Light enveloped his right hand, and he held out his left while he waited for her to repair the damage frostbite had done to his extremities.

“Shame that you have Risen around that care so much about Factory.”

She shook her head. “I can barely afford you, Andal.”

“You don’t have to,” was his response, but she hadn’t stopped shaking her head. He sighed. “I won’t work outside of your means. Fallen are uncomfortably close, and I haven’t paid Munji enough for my cloak. We’re square, I promise.”

Square. Even. She relaxed when he used those words, so he peppered them into conversation whenever possible. Her shoulders dropped, and she took a sip of his tea. “How close?” she asked. Salary negotiation was over, then. Good. He hated talking money.

“Half a day, less if they have pikes.”

“Which is unlikely,” Lady interjected. She switched to his other hand, and he grabbed his mug before Aisha could drink more out of it.

“Right. They weren’t dressed for riding, and it’s mostly Dregs. They’re heading north, so you shouldn’t have trouble. Just stay on Alert-2 and they should pass right on by.”

She looked pleased. “I’ll let FacSec know, double the patrols. You’re staying another day?”

He nodded, clenching his teeth as he felt his digits uncurl. “Aye. Tomorrow evening I’ll head back to the City.”

She stood up from her chair and nodded to the meal. “Eat well, Brask, so I get my money’s worth out of you tomorrow. I need you to run a few more rounds of tracking lessons with the new FacSec division before you go back to Ivory.”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t think of leaving you hanging, Corporator ma’am.”

“And don’t you dare start,” were her parting words, and she left just as Lady finished up with his hands. 

“Put your feet up,” she told him as he dug into his soup. Chickpeas and lentil squished between his teeth, and coriander burst hotly inside his mouth. He closed his eyes in bliss and propped his legs up. Lady tsked at him as she repaired his blackened toes, and he shivered violently as he sucked down his midnight meal.


End file.
